This Cold Reality I Have Made
by Vita Fidens
Summary: Sequel to "You Made This Harder Than It Had to Be." Dean Ambrose finally has his prize, but will Mr. Barrett let him keep it? Does he have any say in the matter? Rated M: Some themes that might be disturbing, please read with caution.
1. Chapter 1

Molly felt a savage sense of joy as she watched Wade leave. It dissipated nearly the moment he shut the door behind him and was replaced with a deep sense of despair. She suddenly struggled to breathe, trying desperately to hold back tears.

It was done. It was really and truly done.

She expected a harsh response from Mr. Ambrose, but for a change he said nothing for several moments.

Finally, he placed a warm hand on her shoulder. "Do you want to stay here?"

She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

He stood and began searching for his pants, eventually finding them halfway under the bureau. He searched his pockets for the keys to his house before finding them and handing them over to her.

"Get dressed and head…home," he said, the realization hitting him suddenly in the chest. It felt quite good to say. "I will pack your things and bring them back with me."

She nodded, although her eyes were far away. He sat beside her again for a moment and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

"You made the right decision," he said in a low voice, resting his chin on her shoulder. "There was no other way for you to have a happy ending to your story. Do you really believe that I would have left you and Mr. Barrett alone?"

He paused, waiting for an answer. Not receiving one, he continued on.

"You may not see it now, but what he did was for the absolute best. Your life has been fraught with fear and disappointment. That will _never_ be the case again. You've lived through the worst fear and the worst disappointment imaginable." He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly. "Don't you see that, Molly? The man broke your heart, but you're still here. You've survived. You are, in fact, breathing."

He fell silent for a long while, simply holding her while she considered his words.

Gradually, she turned to face him. He wasn't surprised to see that she had been crying silently.

"Darling," he said gently, trying hard to keep himself from smiling at how ridiculous he sounded, "this pain won't last."

After a long while, she nodded. "Thank you," she whispered, meeting his eyes for a brief moment before looking away.

He kissed her again, this time on her temple. "Get dressed," he said in a low voice, "go home. Sit in a warm bath – it will help with the soreness – and sleep if you'd like. I'll be along shortly."

He waited for her to nod in agreement before letting go, moving away to get dressed himself and begin the process of packing her things.

Molly moved slowly, letting his words reverberate through her. The pain seemed absolutely unbearable…but he was right. She was still breathing. It hadn't killed her, although in moments she truly wished it had.

She stood and was amazed at the sudden influx of a stabbing, achy pain between her thighs. She glanced at Mr. Ambrose's back curiously – how had he known that she would be sore? And further, how did he know how to calm such an infliction?

It was only a brief thought before she began to consider, once again, the strange course that her life had taken over the past day.

She had willingly agreed to marry Mr. Ambrose. It was still a difficult concept to believe. The man who had taken her from her home, had frightened her, and had hurt her beyond measure…she was going to be his wife, and all of her own choosing.

She glanced at him again, watching as he pulled his shirt over his head. A wisp of a thought entered her head, a gentle string that said this man surely must have a depth to him that she didn't yet understand. Immediately, she shook it out of her head. Expecting that the man wasn't brutal to his core would be a very dangerous mistake.

She'd made enough dangerous mistakes in the last several weeks – her shattered soul reminded her of that – and so she pushed herself into the naïve promise that she would never make another dangerous mistake again.


	2. Chapter 2

After walking the four blocks back to Mr. Ambrose's house – she still couldn't think of it as her own – she felt as if she was on fire. That nagging ache between her thighs bloomed into pain mightily, and coupled with a stiffness that had settled into her back and legs, each step was agony. She tried to hold back tears as best she could, but a few did escape her eyes. Thankfully, no neighbors were on their way about and she could manage to avoid a rather strange first introduction.

She finally made it to the front door and fumbled the key into the lock, grateful that she would be seated and able to relax in mere moments. The cruel joke was that there wasn't a stick of furniture in the house yet, save the bed. The idea of having to climb a flight of stairs after her walk nearly set her to tears again, before she elected to follow Mr. Ambrose's advice and go sit in the bath.

Gritting her teeth through a few more minutes of movement, she set everything out and ran the water before undressing and gingerly stepping in.

She had her doubts that this course of action would actually work, but she was willing to at least attempt it. Sinking into water up to her neck, she tried to keep her mind from going back to anything other than Wade and Mr. Ambrose.

She simply wasn't ready to think about it yet.

Closing her eyes, she was suddenly lost in a memory of the beach. She'd visited one with her mother and father as a small child – the first and last trip they would take as a family.

No.

There was pain everywhere she turned today, it seemed.

"All right," she murmured to herself. "Practical matters."

With that, she began making a list of all the furniture they would need. Then all the necessary kitchen implements, as she was sure he had none. Linens. Dishes. She began mentally arranging furniture.

She was so lost in this process that she didn't hear him come in, and jumped when he finally spoke.

"Is it helping?"

He was amused when she was startled enough to slosh water out of the tub onto the floor, but elected not to laugh. She looked grave, as if she'd been thinking of some very serious issues prior to his interruption.

"Yes," she replied, sounding surprised. She hadn't noticed the ache subsiding, but she was pleased to note that it had. "How did you know it would?"

He shrugged. "You grow up in a whorehouse, you learn a few tricks."

That had stunned her into silence. He took the opportunity to offer her his hand and help her out of the bath. "I have all of your things upstairs, but I don't know where you'd like to put them."

"Do you have any furniture where I could store my things?"

He considered the question for a moment. "Well…no," he finally answered, his brows going up briefly before falling back into a neutral position. "I suppose I should take care of that."

She shook her head, wrapping a towel around herself. "I'll go," she said quietly. "I've already worked out what we need."

He hesitated. "Darling, as much as I would like to believe that you have good intentions, I don't quite have the burning desire to send you off into the world with a few thousand pounds entirely unaccompanied."

The words hung awkwardly between them, a reminder for both that the situation they found themselves in was less than an ideal one.

"Fine," she said after a few tense moments. "What do you propose?"


	3. Chapter 3

While Molly and Mr. Ambrose uneasily made their way out to visit several local shops, Mr. Barrett was attempting to tell Sheamus about the change in their arrangement without losing his temper or control of his tightly-reigned despair.

He thought that if he simply focused on saying the words and refused to feel anything, he might make it through. He wasn't having a very successful run with this course of action.

"Ambrose," Sheamus said flatly. "She's marrying Ambrose."

"I'm sorry. It was her decision. At least, that's what they tell me."

He'd elected not to say anything about finding them in bed together. There were some things that men didn't need to know. He wished he hadn't known about it, and he decided to spare Sheamus the same fate.

"You don't believe that, but you're going to let her go through with it anyway?"

Wade shrugged, attempting to keep the gesture casual but knowing how helpless he must have looked. "I have no way of knowing for certain that Molly didn't make this decision. The last few days have been stressful for everyone here. She may have wanted to escape that and seen this as her way out."

Sheamus sat sullenly for several minutes, chewing on his lip. "That doesn't make sense."

Wade closed his eyes. "I know it doesn't make sense," he snapped. "I know. Not a goddamn iota of this makes any fucking sense, but it's what we have to deal with."

Both men fell silent, Wade embarrassed by his outburst and Sheamus slowly connecting the dots in his mind.

"I'm sorry, mate," he finally said in a low voice, even though sympathy was truly the last emotion he had – anger, embarrassment, and a little bit of loathing prevailed. "I didn't realize you and Molly…."

"I was going to divorce Abigail," Wade said hollowly, not seeing any point in lying for another moment. "I was going to marry her. And then that bitch blows back in and ruins that perfect plan, ruins the only happiness I've had in years. And for what? For spite. For pride." He glanced over at Sheamus, looking haunted. "Ambrose…Ambrose knew the perfect time to swoop in and take advantage of the situation. I'm sure that's not a coincidence." He paused. "I hate her," he finally continued, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. "I hate her much more than it's healthy to hate another human being. And if I have to look at Ambrose now, I might kill him."

Sheamus fell silent for several moments, trying to keep his own temper in check. He'd been lied to about Molly, lied to by one of his best friends. Molly never would have been the good wife he'd expected. Wade had convinced her once to participate in infidelity; surely he would have been able to do so once she was married to him.

He'd merely been chosen as a placeholder.

"She never even said goodbye," Wade whispered. Sheamus glanced up and was shocked by the tears in his friend's eyes. "She left without a word."

He wanted to continue being angry, but found that he couldn't. He didn't doubt that his friend's intentions had been noble, and that he would have been content to see Molly with a decent man. The fact that she was with Ambrose tore at both of them.

"Listen, mate," he said, shaking his head. "Don't let her go. If it matters that much to you, get a bloody divorce and be with her. Life is too short in the end, but it feels like eternity if you're unhappy. Spend the time you have with someone who makes you happy."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean buried his face in Molly's neck, kissing her hungrily while her hands raked over his back.

It felt glorious.

Impatient, he bodily lifted her by her waist and carried her up the stairs, depositing her on the bed with minimal ceremony before undressing.

She hesitated. "I'm still…."

He smiled. "I'm not going to do anything that will lead to more soreness, darling. In fact, what I intend to do will probably help."

He had no idea if it would or not, but he needed her right now with a fierceness that was surprising and was willing to say nearly anything as a result.

She undressed slowly, shyly, and it only deepened his hunger for her. He went to turn the light out, and she stopped him with a gentle touch of her hand. "Leave it on," she said with a smile, although he could see a touch of fear behind her eyes. "Please."

He complied and joined her on the bed, pausing to kiss her lightly on the lips before moving down her body. She sighed with what sounded like relief the moment his tongue began working against her, her hand weaving into his hair.

She wasn't sure what had come over her when they returned home. Their afternoon had, at first, been uneventful. They had placed an order for new furniture, to arrive by the end of the week. It had gone well enough.

They had then moved to another store in order to buy a good deal of kitchen ware. Molly had stopped short just inside the door, confronted with the smiling face of an old acquaintance. She had attempted to be polite, and the woman made the same passing attempts at polite conversation, although peppered with condescending remarks about her father.

Dean had, oddly enough, intervened. He lightly took Molly's arm, proudly announced her as his fiancée, and then pulled a stack of bills out of his pocket. The woman's attitude changed, but Dean would have none of it.

"Do you run this store by yourself?" He'd asked pleasantly.

"Oh, no," she giggled, believing that he was flirting with her. She shot Molly a smug look. "My husband and I both work here."

Dean smiled, and the woman smiled back. Molly could see the feral quality to Dean's expression and kept silent, although there was a growing sense of amusement in her chest.

"Might I see him?"

Confused, she went to the back of the store and brought her husband out. Dean exchanged pleasantries with him for a few moments before placing the bills on the counter. "Do you see this?" He asked. The man, befuddled, confirmed that he did.

"Your stupid quim of a wife just cost you this much money by insulting my fiancée in front of me. I suggest you have a discussion with her about proper decorum." He picked up his money and returned it to his pocket. "We, however, will be taking our business elsewhere regardless."

Molly had only a moment to register the shock and horror on both of their faces before Dean took her by the arm and turned her away, taking her towards the door. "Keep your head up," he had instructed. "Don't let them see you looking weak."

They visited another store, procured what they needed, and returned home. Molly had surprised both of them by launching herself at Dean the moment the door was shut behind them, kissing him fiercely.

He had quickly recovered his senses, and now was enjoying the scrape of her fingernails against his scalp, the soft cries that fell from her lips, and the sweet taste of her.

He didn't stop until she had climaxed twice, feeling that was a just reward for taking the initiative tonight. As he moved to lie beside her, she shyly brought her hand down to his crotch and began stroking him of her own accord.

He gave a small sigh of contentment, burying his face in her hair. She turned her face towards his and kissed him lightly, which soon bloomed into an intense, aggressive kiss. He allowed his hands to wander to her breasts and then back down between her thighs. She gripped him tighter in response, moved her hand faster. He matched her speed precisely, rocking his hips against her.

He waited until she came again, her body shaking against his, before he let himself have his own orgasm.

They both lie there, panting, for several minutes before gently disentangling themselves. Dean stood after a few moments and left the room, returning with a towel and his cigarettes. Wordlessly, he handed the towel to Molly and she cleaned herself off while he lit his cigarette.

"So," he asked, returning to the bed. "Did that actually help?"


	5. Chapter 5

"It did," she replied, stifling a yawn. "How did you know?"

He grinned at her, a lopsided grin full of mischief. "I wasn't entirely sure that it would before we began," he admitted. "Although I'm glad it did." He bent and put a light kiss on her nose.

"The lessons you learn in a whorehouse," she teased.

His smile became a bit stiffer. "If you only knew," he replied quietly.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments. "Tell me about that woman today," he finally said, smoking and staring at the ceiling.

"She's a bitch. There's not much more to say."

He tried, and failed, to contain a grin. She was becoming increasingly crass with every moment she spent in his company. He liked it.

"Do you encounter that sort of behavior often in public?"

She was quiet, and for a fashion he thought she wouldn't respond. "Not as blatant," she replied. "But people stare and whisper behind their hands."

"People always do," he replied, annoyed at the world.

She glanced over at him, and he could see something on the tip of her tongue. "Thank you," she said after a moment. "For what you did today."

"Nobody will treat you like that again. Not while I'm in your presence." He paused. "I'm sorry your father was so useless and gave you this kind of life."

"He wasn't always useless," she said quietly. "After my mother died…." She stopped abruptly. He wanted to push her to continue, but sensed that it wouldn't be the right move. "After she died rather unexpectedly, he began to fall apart. He loved her a little too much, I think, and he simply couldn't survive without her. I think he's wanted to die for a very long time so he can be with her again."

He was quiet for a short while. "He never thought about what would become of you?"

She shook her head. "Grief can consume everything if you let it. Even your love for your children. Especially when they look so much like their mother."

He felt a cold chill in the pit of his stomach. "Did he ever…." He wasn't even sure how to ask the question, or why he wanted to know the answer.

She shook her head vehemently. "No, nothing like that. He sent me away. I was seven."

"Where did he send you?"

"To live with my aunt and her husband. I hated it there."

"Why?"

She didn't answer, instead nuzzling her body into his and resting her head on his chest. It was the first truly affectionate gesture she had extended. "Molly," he said slowly, running his hands over her back, "did someone hurt you there?"

She was quiet for a long time, and still. So still that he would have been concerned if he couldn't feel the rise and fall of her chest against his stomach.

But he waited. He was not a patient man, and his emotional intelligence was, on occasion, severely lacking. In this instance, however, even he knew not to push.

"My aunt's husband had a child from a previous marriage. A boy. He was…oh, seventeen, I think?" He could feel her heart racing in her chest. "He waited a week until he began to come into my room at night. At first it was friendly. We'd talk and laugh. I considered him a friend.

"About three weeks after that, things took a turn. He started touching me in ways that made me uncomfortable. It was always fleeting, a hand on my chest or my backside, so quickly that I pushed it away as being an accident. Accidents happened, especially sharing a small bed.

"But he grew bolder with time, touching me for longer intervals, working his hands under my clothes. He asked me to keep quiet, told me that this was how adults played, and we were having fun. I wanted desperately to believe it. After everything I'd gone through in the past year, I just wanted someone to care for me again. I wanted to believe that he had good intentions."

She fell silent. Dean felt his whole body tensed with rage, and forced himself to loosen his tightened muscles. She wouldn't want to tell him anything if he reacted how he truly wanted to, which was to go find this bastard and beat the pulp out him. He wanted to show him how adults of his kind played.

"He didn't, did he?" He asked hollowly.

"No," she replied quietly. "No, he didn't."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"I tried to tell my aunt. She said that I was making up stories, and that she wouldn't tolerate that kind of behavior. It made him angry when he found out what I'd said. He didn't visit me for a week. When he did, he wasn't gentle any longer."

He could feel his breath coming in shallow pants with the effort of holding back his anger. "But he never…."

"No. He didn't get the chance. My father caught wind of what I'd told my aunt and took me back home immediately. We never saw them again."

He felt a moment of gratitude for Tom Parker and the one time in his life he hadn't been entirely useless to his daughter.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, unsure of what else he could possibly say.

She shrugged uncomfortably. "It's all right," she said in a low voice.

"No, it isn't. I might be a sick bastard, but a child? Never a child." He stopped short, a sudden question forming in his mind. "I thought you said you'd never seen a man before me."

It wasn't productive, but he couldn't stop his mouth from asking.

"I hadn't," she answered calmly. "It was always dark."

"Which was why you wanted to keep the light on tonight," he said, the realization slamming him over the head. He thought back to all of the times they'd been intimate. There was only one where he had come upon her in the dark, and that was the one she had fought him like a banshee.

With sick horror, he realized that he suddenly knew the answer to that idle question of where she had learned to fight a grown man so effectively.


	6. Chapter 6

"How is it that you grew up in a whorehouse?" She asked, desperate to change the subject, and change it quickly. She'd never told anyone about this before, and it was an uncomfortable – if not slightly liberating – feeling.

He snorted derisively before he could stop himself. "My mother was a whore." He was still reeling from all that he'd heard, and was trying desperately to process the information.

"And your father?"

"I never knew him. I'm not sure my mother did, either."

"What was it like growing up there?" She asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

He grinned. "I was the only boy surrounded by women. Tough women, to be sure. They had their moments of kindness. My mother wasn't worth a damn to me – she never had the time or inclination towards me, really – but some of them knew that and took me under their wing. It made for very interesting dynamics when I became a man."

"What do you mean?"

He laughed. "I mean I was a thirteen-year-old boy in a whorehouse. I'd looked at these women as motherly figures for some time, but they weren't my mother. The attitude about sex was quite casual there, as you'd expect. When one of the women caught me peeking at her, she brought me into her room and made me a man right then and there."

Molly paused. "A woman you viewed as a mother to you?"

He shrugged. "She wasn't truly my mother at the end of the day. None of them were really versed in how to handle a child. She did what she thought was best for me, relieving my curiosity. I saw her several times after that. She taught me how to please a woman, where and how to touch her and kiss her. She taught me _why_ I would want to please a woman." He glanced down at her, a small smile on his lips. "I can still hear her telling me that when a woman enjoys what you're doing to her, she'll make sure that enjoyment is visited back upon you times ten. She made a very good point with that statement, one that's served me well from time to time."

He bent and kissed her lightly, simply because he wanted to do so. "By the time I was sixteen," he continued, "I'd grown bored of conventional sex. I spent most of the prior years having it at least once a day, with various women – not the usual standard of living for a boy that age. That's when I met Roz. She was a new addition, and she catered to a specific clientele. I was so unsure at first – the idea of hitting a woman during sex, of being rough with her – was one that I'd been told was absolutely forbidden. But the first time I did it, sex wasn't boring any longer. I liked it again. I craved it, like only a sixteen-year-old boy can."

He fell silent for a bit, and Molly considered his words. "Why are you so angry all the time?" She asked gently.

"It's a question I've asked myself for a very long time, my little Miss Molly," he answered honestly. "I'm simply not sure. My life growing up wasn't conventional, but it wasn't as bad as others. I'd like to believe that it's not anger; that I just like to fight. I like to hit. I like to get hit. But I know that there must be something that drives those desires." He glanced down at her. "I'd like to think I'm a base creature, but it seems I often have deeper motivations. Take you, for example."

She raised an eyebrow at him curiously before asking what he meant.

A smile flicked onto his lips. "I thought at first that I just wanted to fuck you, but something kept drawing me back, driving me mad. Something I couldn't see at first, but that has become crystal-clear this evening.

"I'm captivated by the broken parts of you. Every last aching secret, every stored up hurt – they shine through your eyes in a way that only another broken person could see." He bent and kissed her again. "Darling," he said tenderly, "you and I were broken so that we could fit together."


	7. Chapter 7

Wade waited the rest of the day and spent much of the night drinking heavily while he considered Sheamus' words to him.

He hated to admit it, but the man was right. He'd once again been a selfish, foolish bastard, and it had cost him the one person in the world he'd managed to love.

Finally unable to bear it any longer, and not glancing at the clock – which would have told him that it was currently four in the morning, not the best time for a social visit – he grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

It started to drizzle lightly while he walked to Ambrose's house. Once there, he stood by the gate for a long time searching for some sign of life – the flicker of a curtain, the sudden explosion of light through a window – but none came.

He gripped the gate tightly in his large hands while he considered his next move. His mind told him that interrupting them while they slept wouldn't win him any favor, but then his mind fixated on the idea of the two of them sleeping beside one another and that settled the question.

He walked up to the door and knocked loudly, waiting only several seconds before knocking again. Before long, he was pounding on the door so hard that it was beginning to rattle the windows in their frames.

Finally, the door was wrenched open by a murderous-looking Dean Ambrose, wearing only a pair of pants slung low on his hips.

"What?" He snapped.

"I want to see Molly, and I want to see her now."

"Get the fuck out of here," Dean snarled, attempting to slam the door.

Wade wedged his foot in the way. "No. Molly. Now."

Ambrose opened the door again, his face suddenly eerily calm. Wade was smart enough to know that this didn't bode well for him. "Don't make me slam your head through another mirror," he growled. "Get out of my house and get out now."

"Dean," Molly said from the stairs. "It's all right."

She suddenly came into view, wrapped in a blanket. Her shoulders were bare. Dean threw an arm around her possessively, and she very gently removed it. "Go back upstairs. I'll be up shortly." He looked angry, but bent and kissed her, keeping his eyes trained on Wade.

He left slowly, but he did leave.

Molly turned her weary eyes to the man on her porch. "It's early and you're drunk," she said tiredly. "What do you want?"

"I want you," he said simply. "I've wanted you from the moment I saw you."

"You've told me this before."

He swallowed hard. She was so cold, so unfeeling. This was not what he'd expected.

"I'm sorry," he said forlornly, desperate to see her react in some way. "I am so sorry. I told you that I was done being stubborn, that I was done being foolish, and then I dive right back into being those things." He paused. "I'm sorry I drove you to Mr. Ambrose."

She refused to meet his eyes, and for a long time she didn't speak. He was on the verge of saying something, anything, to try to hear her voice again when she finally spoke. "He made it easy," she said in a low voice. "Let go of doubt. Let go of fear. Respect and obey." She paused. "He made it easy to live with, easy to understand. It is uncomplicated." She finally met his eyes, but only briefly. "You can apologize as many times as you see fit. What's done is done, and your actions said more to me than the lies you spewed ever will. Say what you will about Mr. Ambrose...he's never lied about loving me. I can live with a man like that."

"What are you saying?" He asked, desperate to find a different meaning in her words.

"I'm saying that you should go home to your wife."

He closed his eyes. "I'll divorce her, Molly. I'll go down to the courthouse and file the papers this instant. Just please, come with me."

He reached out for her, and she stepped back. "You told me that once before, and then you tried to marry me off to the Irishman. I can't trust you won't do it again. I've made my decision." She paused, surprised by the sadness in his eyes but still unmoved.

"Go home," she said with some pity. "Stop making a fool of yourself."

Without waiting for a response, she closed the door quietly and latched it shut – shutting him out of her home and her heart.


	8. Sequel

Thank you all for reading, and a special thanks to those who have reviewed/tweeted/PM'd me about this story and others. It truly does mean the world to me, so if you have the time and like (or hate) what you're reading, let me know!

The next part is up and is titled "Here in the Dark Side of Me." I hope you enjoy.


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